


no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to her)

by orange_yarn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_yarn/pseuds/orange_yarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You alright?" Barton asks, once you've stopped thrashing. There’s a mark on his cheek, where you hit him, and his breathing sounds as ragged as yours feels.</p><p>You cough wetly, turn your head to spit blood, and glower up at him.</p><p>"Yeah," he says, leaning back against a row of seats with a grimace, clearly hurting too. "That's what I figured."</p><p>(Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, five times + touch. Second Person, Pietro's POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> I will preface this by saying that all I know about the Avengers comes from the movies and the Junior Novel of Age of Ultron (no lie). This is entirely self-indulgent. Also, I am sure these fix-it fics have been done a billion times by now, and I can't wait to read them all. I just needed to get this story out of my system first.
> 
> I apologize for the 2nd person, Homestuck ruined me. It's Pietro's POV, in case there's any confusion.
> 
> Title is from "Work Song," by Hozier.

-+-

 

You are dreaming.

It's the same dream you always have. You are ten years old again, huddled with your sister in the wreckage of your apartment. Even in your dream, the bitter, acrid smoke burns in your nose, in your throat. You can hear sirens outside, you can hear the cries of your neighbors, trapped and dying, coming up through the hole in the floor. They are screaming, but you and Wanda, you are silent, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, wrapped so tightly together you might be one person, staring down a missile three feet away.

The whole world moves so slowly, now that you are fast. A minute feels like a century, the seconds just drag on, and you were never patient to begin with. Still, nothing compares to those two days, feeling your sister’s panicked heartbeat pounding in time with your own. The floor would shift and creak and each time you would squeeze your eyes shut tight, pull her a little closer, and wait for the bomb to go off.

You are still waiting. You have been waiting half your life for death to catch up with you. You think maybe it finally has. You remember a hailstorm of bullets, the clarity that washed over you when you realized what you had to do. You think you remember dying.

Or maybe you're still just dreaming, because the ground shifts, and you wake up.

 

-+-

 

The first breath hurts. So does the second, and the third, and actually, everything is a haze of pain and confusion. Your entire body throbs, but there’s something else, something worse, a hollow feeling that you cannot recognize, cannot comprehend, and it is consuming you.

Something -- someone -- is pinning you down. You did not even realize you were still fighting, you don't know if it's man or metal, but you go ahead and take a swing anyway. Your aim feels clumsy, but your fist connects with flesh. Your attacker swears under his breath, then dives for your wrists and holds them in place.

“Come on, kid,” he says, and the voice is familiar enough to cut through your panic. You open your eyes, but it’s a long moment before your vision clears and Barton’s face comes into focus. You remember, then, what you thought you’d dreamt. The bullets raining down, tearing straight through you, lunging forward to push Barton and that boy to safety, but not quite making it yourself.

You should be dead. You were dead, you remember dying. The realization startles you into stillness, and your surroundings slowly start to filter into focus. The sky is wide and open above you, and the air is thin. There is a rumbling beneath you, and the roar of engines. You must have made it onto one of the lifeboats, after you fell. You do not remember.

Barton’s got one hand pressed to his ear, talking to someone on the comms. You think you must have lost yours. He's saying, “Yeah, I’ve got no clue, either. Just get his sister over here, he’s in pretty bad shape." 

There are other people on the boat, some lying flat on their backs like you are, and others are crowding around, but Barton ignores them all, and watches you warily. You wonder if that’s because you were definitely dead not very long ago.

"You alright?" he asks, once you have stopped thrashing. There's a mark on his cheek, where you hit him, and his breathing sounds as ragged as yours feels.  
  
You cough wetly, turn your head to spit blood, and glower up at him.  
  
"Yeah," he says, leaning back against a row of seats with a grimace, clearly hurting too. "That's what I figured."  
  
He is still crouched by you, pinning you down, even though you have stopped trying to fight him. You do not think you could if you wanted to.   
  
"You're not doing yourself any favors," he tells you, and you realize that he has let go of your wrists, both hands pressed to the hole where your side used to be. "I'm trying to keep pressure on the worst ones, but you've got more bullet holes than I have hands, so." He reaches to prod another wound, higher up on your chest. "Most of them are already healing. Did you know you could do that?"  
  
"Do what?" you finally manage, your breath wheezing out through punctured lungs. You do not feel like you can do much of anything right now. You cannot break free, you cannot run, you cannot even think straight. Now that you’re waking up, you realize that hollow feeling isn’t a physical pain, but an absence. Even before Strucker’s experiments, you and Wanda had a connection. Her enhancements only strengthened it, made it into something visceral. You have lived your whole life with your minds intertwined, and now she is just gone.

It does not matter how many times you were shot, this pain is worse. There is a black hole in your heart where your sister used to be, and that is the pain that has stolen your breath away, that has blinded you, that has left your limbs numb. You would run, if you could, you would never stop running, but your head is filled with white noise and static.  
  
The world is pressing in around you, dark and heavy, and you let your eyes fall closed.

"Hey, stop that," Barton commands. "Stay with me." He shakes your shoulders and you groan as the movement pulls at more wounds than you can count, but you do as he asks and open your eyes, if only to glare at him. "There you go," he says. "Keep your eyes open. I don't want to know what that sister of yours will do to me if I let you die twice."

You can hardly breathe, but you have to ask, “She is safe?” If she is not, you do not know what you came back for, but you know you will not be staying long.

“She’s fine,” Barton promises, and you nod, relieved. “Vision got her out in time. They’re meeting us on the helicarrier. Speaking of,” he says, glancing up at something above the two of you. You follow his gaze as the massive ship looms into view. “This is probably going to hurt. Sorry.”

You frown in confusion, and then the lifeboat jolts as you dock. Pain lances through your everything, and your vision whites out.

 

-+-

 

When the world fades back in, you are disoriented. The floor is littered with twisted metal and broken glass, and for half a second you see your old apartment, with a crater in the floor but your baby pictures still hanging on the wall. Then you blink, and the memories are replaced with workstations and computer monitors. Wires spark and feet shuffle as agents hustle the evacuees deeper into the helicarrier.

"He's healing," Barton's saying to someone, someone broad-shouldered and covered in blue.  "Don't ask me how, but he is. He's just trying to bleed out again, first."

You are propped up, leaning against a console, but Barton is still crouched over you, the heels of his hands pressed into the worst of your wounds. The other figure crowds in a little closer, and you recognize Captain America’s emblem, even if you cannot focus enough to make out his face.

“He was dead,” Rogers says, very quietly. “We both saw him. How is this possible?”

“If you get killed, walk it off,” you croak, and both men jump in surprise, at the sound of your voice. Nothing about this is actually funny, but you laugh anyway. It sends pain spiraling through your chest, and blood bubbles up in your mouth. It is still worth it.

"You did say that," Barton reminds him helpfully, and Rogers rubs at his temples and sighs.

“Well, at least we know you follow orders,” Rogers says, shaking his head. “That’s more than I can say for most of this team.” He looks you over, his frown deepening. You do not know how you look right now, but you can imagine you have looked better.

Honestly, though, the fog in your head might be clearing up, and the pain is maybe a few degrees less than excruciating. You think some of the wounds have nearly closed. You will take that as progress. There is that same blank space, though, where Wanda should be, and that has you terrified. She should be here, Barton said she would be here.

"My sister," you say, your voice still not much more than a gasp. Rogers shifts towards you, laying one hand on your shoulder, mindful of your wounds.

"She’s coming," Rogers tells you. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, but turns to Barton and says, “We need to go get him to medical, now.”

“No,” you say, with as much conviction as you can muster. You have had enough of needles, of doctors and tests, to last you more than one lifetime. And if Barton is right, if you really are healing, then all you need is your sister and you will be fine.

Rogers has this look on his face that spells only good intentions. You know that Barton will agree with him, and you know that he is probably right, but you are going to fight this anyway. The two of them exchange a look, and you brace yourself, until something else catches your attention.

Her footsteps are light, nearly soundless even on the corrugated steel. If it was anyone else, you wouldn’t have heard them coming, but you and Wanda, you are two halves of a whole, and you know the second she enters the room.

You turn your head, looking past Barton and Rogers, and there she is. She is still half a room away, and her hands are clenched tight at her sides. You feel her reach out all the same, the tendrils of her mind snaking out to brush against your consciousness. She hesitates at first, unsure if you are real, not quite able to believe. The next second, though, it is like a wave as she swells into place, filling the gaping chasm in your mind, bringing you peace. For the first time since you woke, you breathe easily.

She pushes past Rogers, and even Barton pulls back to give her space, your blood staining his hands. She drops to her knees right in front of you, and there are not enough words in any language you know to describe the broken look in her eyes. You were dead, you know this with absolute certainty, and you can only imagine what that has done to her.

“Pietro,” she breathes, and it sounds like a prayer, her hands fluttering to touch you everywhere she can reach, your hands, your chest, your face. Her fingertips are light as they ghost over your injuries, and her hands are shaking. She presses one palm into the wound low in your belly, still oozing blood.

You want to tell her, _I am sorry, I love you, I could not leave you_ , but before you can open your mouth she brings her free hand up to brush your brow. Her eyes flash red, and the world around you fades.

You sleep, and this time, you do not dream.

 

-+-

 

 


	2. two

-+-

****  
  


You wake once, on a plane. The cabin is dark, save for strips of fluorescent light down the aisle, and you are lying still. Two voices float back from the controls, shadowy figures that you cannot recognize or place. They do not matter, anyway, because your sister is right beside you.

She’s holding your hand, your fingers laced together, and humming an old lullaby your mother used to sing, one that you’d forgotten, until now. You open your mouth to say something, maybe her name, but as soon as you shift she knows it. She squeezes your hand a little tighter, and says, “Hush, Pietro. Sleep.”

You drift off.

****  
  


-+-

****  
  


This time, when you wake, there are no engines, no turbines, no roaring wind or shattered cities. You are lying on a bed, not sprawled out on cold metal or concrete, and there is a heavy blanket pulled up to your chest. You know, even before you try to move, that your wounds have all but healed. You are warm, and safe, and well.

There is a chair, pulled right up beside your bed, as if someone was sitting beside you, but it is empty now. Instead, your sister has her back to you, arms crossed and staring out the window. The light tells you that it is midmorning. Outside, the land is open, until it hits the treeline, and there are children playing in the yard. The whole world is quiet, except for the house’s wooden bones, creaking in the wind.

You push yourself up, shrugging off the blanket and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your feet are bare against the rug, and you are wearing borrowed clothes. Your body is stiff, and when you gingerly press your fingertips against your side, instead of a bullet hole you find new skin and a raised scar.

You won’t pretend to know why you have survived, except that Strucker’s experiments must have gifted you more than just speed. You aren’t going to complain.

Wanda does not say a word, but she knows that you are awake. You can feel her again, half of your soul. She is deep in thought. You are not patient, you never have been, but you will wait until she is ready to speak.

You don’t know how long it’s been, since Sokovia, since the plane ride that might have been a dream, and your sister humming in the dark. You don’t know where you are, except that you are in what seems to be a young boy’s room, full of model cars and posters of American athletes. You don’t even know if the battle was won, although you should think if Ultron had survived nothing else would have.

“He is gone,” Wanda says, breaking her silence, and answering your question before you even have to ask. “There is nothing left of him.”

You nod, although she doesn’t see it. “Good,” you say, although the word does not sound like enough. “The others?” Barton and Rogers you have seen, but beyond that, you have no idea. You cannot estimate the destruction, or the civilian lives that must have been lost.

“There were...minimal casualties,” Wanda says carefully. She is still staring out the window, but you doubt she’s admiring the view. You don’t need to see inside your sister’s head to read the lines of tension in her shoulders. She feels guilty, for what has happened, she feels responsible. You know because you feel the same. “If we had not helped him--”

“He would have found another way,” you cut in, your voice firm. “We helped to stop him. We made it right.”

“All those people,” she says, shaking her head. “I went inside their minds, I twisted them, for _him_.” She takes a shaky breath, and when she continues, her voice is very quiet. “I felt you die, did you know that? I thought it was my penance.” She says it like a confession, and you would rather face a thousand more bullets than watch her feel this way. “I showed them their worst fears, and mine came true.”

“Wanda,” you say, although it is very hard to speak around the lump caught in your throat. “Look at me. I am alive.” Still, she will not turn to you, and you cannot make yourself move another inch, frozen in place. You can hear her, in your head, she is screaming, and you don’t know how to make it stop, how to help her. “Please.”

Finally, finally, she pushes away from the window, and turns to face you. Her eyes are glowing red and her outline is shimmering, arms wrapped tight in the middle like she’s trying to hold herself together. You have never seen her like this, but then again, you have never died before.

You know, without a doubt, that if she died you would follow her. She is stronger than you, though, she is so much stronger than you will ever be, and you know that she would survive losing you. You think her fate would be worse.

“Let me see,” she says, and she does not have to ask twice. You know exactly what she wants, and you will do anything you can to reassure her. You pull off your shirt, hiding your wince when your back pings sore as you lift your arms over your head. She steps forward to close the distance between you, arms unfurling as she reaches out.

It has never been easy for you to keep still, but you do so now. You are a statue, barely breathing, as she leans over you, reaching down to trace the scars as they climb up your back. Her fingertips slide over your shoulders, circling another scar, before running back down your chest, to your side, and then finally your stomach. She works like a cartographer, memorizing a map of all the wounds that almost took you away from her.

It’s an eternity before she seems satisfied, and you ask, “You see now? I am fine.” Her eyes are wide and distracted, but she nods. She takes a step back, giving you space to pull your shirt back on, but she doesn’t go far, keeping you within arm’s reach. Once you’re dressed, you hold out your hand, and she takes it, coming to sit beside you on the bed. She gets as close as she can manage, and does not let go of your hand.

The silence between you is comfortable, as it always has been. There are many things you do not need to say to each other, but also many things that should not go unspoken.

“You know that I would never leave you,” you tell her, because she needs to hear it, and you need to say it aloud. More than anything, you need it to be true. You squeeze her hand a little tighter, locking your fingers together. “Not if I could help it.”

“The Vision says you healed because of your speed,” Wanda explains, and you nod. It makes as much sense as anything else, and you know better than to press good luck. “Still, it took so long. Even after I found you, you kept bleeding. I thought it would never stop.”

You frown, because you can’t recall any of that. “The last thing I remember is seeing you on the ship,” you tell her. You do not tell her what you remember from the plane, and her lullaby. That memory, you would like to keep for yourself. “You put me to sleep.”

“You were in pain,” she says, turning over your hand to trace the lines of your palm with her fingertips, not meeting your eyes. “I could not watch you suffer.”

She says it so simply, and a great fondness swells up in your heart. You pull her into a hug with one arm, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. Her hair is soft, and her breath is warm on your neck. “Thank you.”

“Well, it serves me right for being nice.” She pulls away gently and rolls her eyes. “You have been sleeping for two days. Lazybones.” She jabs you lightly in the side, steering clear of your scars, and the smallest of smiles graces her lips. “I missed you,” she says, and you wind your arm around her waist, pulling her in closer.

“Everything will be alright now,” you promise, and she hums in agreement, wrapping both of her hands around one of your own. The wind still whispers through the house, and you can hear voices from outside, and floating up from downstairs, but the world has narrowed to just the two of you.

Except--

“One more thing,” you say, as Wanda settles her head against your shoulder. You feel her turn, looking up and waiting for your question.  “Where are we?”  
  


-+-

****  
  


You have witnessed a great many strange things in your short life. For example, you have seen your sister take a man apart from the inside out with the flick of her fingers, and you have fought beside androids and gods. You have seen time stand still, and run many miles in the blink of an eye. You recently battled an army of robots and came back from the dead. Your life is not normal, and it has not been normal since you were ten years old and the war swallowed your parents whole.

Somehow, nothing you have seen is quite as bizarre as sitting at a kitchen table, watching Clint Barton make French toast and scrambled eggs. The room is cluttered but not messy, warm light filters in through the curtains, and a radio plays a song that  you have never heard before. Everything is ordinary, and so it is surreal.

You knew next to nothing about Barton before you stepped in front of the bullets meant for him. You had only spoken to him a handful of times, and mostly just to trade insults. Your sister shared with you some details, before taking your hand and leading you downstairs to this kitchen, and all of it was news to you. You did not know that he lived on a farm in The Middle of Nowhere, U.S.A., or that he had a family -- a wife, two children, and a third on the way.

You suppose it just goes to show you that you picked the right man to sacrifice yourself for, because what you do know is Barton would have left so much more behind than you can imagine, and he would not have come back.

"The kids go crazy over these," Barton assures you, sliding plates before you and your sister, piled high with food. "Syrup?" he asks, fishing the bottle out of the pantry and giving it a little wave.

You are still sitting in stunned silence, staring at the plate and trying to make sense of this exact moment in your life. Wanda, though, says, "Yes, please," because you were raised to be polite, and then she kicks you under the table when you still don't say anything, because she is your little sister, and she can be a pest.

"Thank you," you finally say, because Wanda is staring you down and might kick you again if you don't. For once, you are not trying to be rude. You are just tired, all the way down to your bones, and the world is moving sluggishly, but not in the way you are used to. It is...disorienting, to say the least.

Barton shrugs, setting the syrup on the table before turning back around, rifling around in the refrigerator, and pulling out a bottle of orange juice. "Don't mention it," he says, pouring a glass for you and another for Wanda. "You should drink this, it's got, I don't know, vitamins or whatever." He studies the label, then shrugs and stuffs it back in the fridge. "You sure you're feeling better? I'm only asking because I was wearing pretty much all of your blood the other day."

"You are being dramatic," you say sourly, as Barton battles with the refrigerator, rearranging the contents so that it will close. He does not have much luck. “I am fine now.”

“Oh, right, _I’m_ dramatic.” Barton scoffs and settles for kicking the refrigerator door shut instead. “Kind of thought that was you, what with your Lazarus act and all.”

Wanda makes a warning sound, clearly displeased with this conversation, and not wanting any reminders of what could have been, and what almost was. You imagine even Barton can feel the unhappiness rolling off of her, the way it is washing over you, flashes of memories you know she would rather pack away. You send her a wave of apology, and feel her relent.

"You need to eat," she tells you, still sounding tense as she spins her fork and spears a piece of scrambled egg. "Or else you will not get your strength back."

The worst part is that she is right. Your wounds may have healed, but you do not think you would have made it down the stairs this morning without your sister’s help, and you are drained. You could probably sleep for another hundred years and still be tired. The simple act of picking up the fork seems monumental, and you stare at it sullenly.

Finally, your sister sighs as she reaches again for the syrup, drizzling it over your plate. She does not speak, but you can feel a spike of concern, brushing against your consciousness. You do not have the energy to fight her, or to reassure her, but you do manage a shrug. You are fine, you will be fine.

If Barton picks up on any part of your exchange, he does not say so. He simply raises an eyebrow as Wanda finally abandons the bottle, closing the lid and setting it down on the table.

“Would you like some French toast with that syrup?” he asks you skeptically, glancing down at your plate. Your breakfast is practically swimming in sticky maple sap and sugar. It is exactly the way you like it. You roll your eyes, but Wanda only smirks.

“He has a sweet tooth,” she says fondly, patting you on the arm. “Now, eat, Pietro. Or I will feed you.” Her voice is light, but the threat is real.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with her,” Barton advises, dropping down to sit across from you, clutching only a cup of coffee. “But, please do, because that sounds _hilarious_.”

“In your dreams, old man,” you mutter, scowling at him as you force yourself to start in on the French toast. You are going for defiant, but unfortunately the food is delicious, and you cannot keep up your glare for long.

You do not see your sister smile, but you feel it all the same, just as you feel her hand on your knee, and a gentle warmth blooming in your heart and mind.

****  
  


-+-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next chapter will be up. I wrote this one instead of packing -- I bought a house and I'm moving in just over a week. Also, I'm an elementary school teacher and there is still a lot to be done before the end of the school year. BUT, writing fanfiction = procrastinating on all of the things I am supposed to be doing, and I sure like procrastinating, so. 
> 
> Come say hi at orange-yarn.tumblr.com if you want to cry about the Maximoff twins with me, I think my sisters are getting tired of me talking about them.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. This chapter did not turn out at all the way I planned. Oh well. Blame the sad orphan flashbacks on how many times I've watched The Thief Lord these past few weeks. 
> 
> My recollection of some things are fuzzy -- the details of the war in Sokovia, the layout of the Barton house. I saw the movie once, on opening day, and I've loaned out both my copies of the Junior Novel to my 4th graders . Honestly I'm not too worried, this is mostly self indulgent anyway.

-+-

 ****  


In your memories, you are still just a boy.

You are poor, and you are hungry. That is not the problem. The problem is, all of the other people in your city, they are also poor, and they are just as hungry. You cannot steal from your neighbors, as they have nothing to take.

You are not the only orphans with a sad story roaming the streets of Sokovia. War has ravaged your homeland. Tanks prowl the streets, and the sidewalks are crawling with soldiers. There are riots, people clamoring for change, but for now, you are still too young to take part. Someday, you will join them, someday, your voice will be heard, but in this moment, you are still just a boy, struggling to keep yourself and your sister alive for one more day.

The men who occupy your city, they have plenty, while the people of Sokovia, your people, they are starving. Stealing from the soldiers is suicide, but you are running out of options. Your sister will not survive this winter, if you cannot find food, and keep her warm, and you will not survive without your sister.

There are trucks, supply conveys, that keep the soldiers fed. There are not so many guards as you would expect. You come up with a plan. It is definitely foolish, but maybe it will work.

“No,” Wanda says, fingers clutching your sleeve, and her eyes wide with fear. In two months, you will both be fourteen, and your sister has not eaten in three days. Somehow, this knowledge hurts worse than your own hunger, twisting and clawing in your stomach. "They have guns."

“It will be fine,” you promise. You hope that you are telling her the truth. “I will be quick. They will never catch me.” You are only a boy, in this memory, and you do not know how fast you will be, one day. You cannot yet imagine the way time will stutter and skid to a halt around you, the potential that is inside the both of you, just waiting to be unleashed. All that you know is the way your hands shake, and that your lips are always dry and cracked. You know that you sister's face is thin and gaunt, and that her hair lost its sheen years ago. You know that you cannot go on like this.

Wanda searches your eyes for a long moment. You do not know what she is looking for, but finally, she nods. You will talk her into much worse things, when you are older, and Strucker comes to you spinning his promises and lies. Someday, you will wonder which choices she regrets. For now, though, she only says, "Be careful, Pietro," and you press a kiss to her forehead, and squeeze her hand.

"I am always careful," you tell her. You are lying.

There is a certain kind of clarity, looking backwards. Now that you are a little older, you can spot your own recklessness. You can recognize that if you had been more patient, and waited for the guard to be distracted, you could have made it to the truck without being spotted. You have heard what they say about hindsight.

The bullet only grazes you, but still, it cuts deep, tearing the flesh on your thigh. You ignore the pain, and you run, you keep running, you do not stop running until the voices behind you have faded, and you are many blocks away. Only then, tucked away in an alley, hiding in the shadows, do you stop to catch your breath, and clamp your fingers over the freely bleeding wound. You have miles to walk before you are back with your sister, and your leg throbs with every step.

You come home to Wanda pale and woozy, your pant leg soaked with blood, but you do not come home empty handed. She frets, but she does not cry. Her eyes are steely as she washes out your wound with a third of a bottle of vodka. You found it in the abandoned basement you are currently calling home, and now you put it to good use. Her hands are steady as she ties your bandage as tight as she can manage. You grit your teeth together, but you do not cry out, not even once.

When you are cleaned up, the two of you split the loaf of bread you swiped from the supply truck. You try and give her more than half, but she is watching you like a hawk, and makes sure you take your share. The bread is sweet, and only a little stale, and you feel full for the first time in months. The victory is even sweeter.

Still, it is the worst winter you can remember. You and Wanda do your best, but your wound becomes infected all the same. For days you languish in that damp basement, a fever blistering through you. Even now, you remember little of that time, save for Wanda's quiet voice, pleading with you in the darkness, and her cool hands on your burning skin. It was not the first time you thought you would die, and it was not the last.

Eventually, the haze clears, but you spend the next few months weak and listless. It is Wanda, who steals from the supply trucks that winter, and your sister is clever enough not to get shot. Other than that, she hardly lets you out of her sight, taking on a role that should be your responsibility. You are older, you should be looking after her, you should not be a burden.

It is spring before you can walk without pain. To this day you have a scar, a reminder of a lesson that you should have learned when you were nearly fourteen, a lesson that you are still learning even now.

 ****  


-+-

 ****  


You try to apologize to Laura Barton exactly once. Normally, you are not one for apologies, but you worry that you have upended her life. You do not think her husband warned her that he was bringing two war-criminals-turned-refugees home with him, for one. Already she has two children to look after, and a third to prepare for. That is not even counting her husband, and you have learned the hard way that he needs a lot of looking after.

She does not seem to mind the chaos. When you come to her, she only shakes her head and waves off your attempts to say sorry, along with your clumsy gratitude.

"Well, where else would you go?" she asks, as if it really is that simple.

Maybe it is. You have not had a real home since you were ten years old, and now your entire city has been obliterated. You could have gone to New York, Wanda has told you, but she was still wary of your standing with SHIELD after your involvement with Ultron, and was reluctant to stay with you so badly injured. When Barton offered his home, it was the only option that made sense.

“He believes he owes you,” Wanda explains, a few days after you wake up. You are sitting on the front porch swing, with your sister pressed up against your side, her fingers laced through yours. The sun is setting over the treeline, casting pink and gold across the sky, and the world around you is very quiet. “You saved his life, and the little boy’s. It was very heroic.”

“It was,” you agree, and Wanda lets go of your hand to flick your knee. You turn and offer your most winning smile, but she only wrinkles her nose. “What?” you protest, and it feels good, to be able to tease your sister again. You would have missed that, if you had not come back. “I should be more modest? It is only the truth. I was very brave.”

“You were very stupid,” she counters, scowling. “And you are not as funny as you think you are,” she adds, but she does not pull away when you sling your arm across her shoulder and pull her closer, so she is not so mad. She is glad you are here to tease her. She is at peace, in this moment, her legs are folded up on the bench beside her, and she rests her head on your chest. You feel her calm wash over you, and you instinctively relax.

For a long while, you both are silent, and you watch Barton out in his yard. He is playing a game with his children, scooping up the girl and twirling her around while the boy laughs. His wife stands off to the side with his arms crossed, but she is smiling. You think of your own parents, and the picture you still look at every day.

You do not allow yourself to wonder if this is what your life could have been, if it were not for bombs and war. Wanda, though, catches the thought before you can squash it. You feel her breathe in deep, pressing herself a little closer, and you tighten your hold, a quiet comfort. It is enough, because it has to be.

It is strange to you, that Barton should think of debts. You did not think of them, when you were in Sokovia, throwing yourself in front of bullets. You did not think of anything, you only acted, and you do not regret it. You are sorry that your sister has suffered, but you are glad that Barton is alive, and that his family is still whole.

You would never admit this, but if anything, you think that you are indebted to Barton. He has treated your sister with kindness when so many others have shown her cruelty. He has opened his home, given you a place to stay while you recover, and you suspect he would let you remain here for even longer. He has trusted you to meet his family, and kept yours safe. He stayed with you after you came back, until your sister could take her place at your side.

"Talk to him, then," Wanda says. She does not need you to speak aloud to know what is on your mind. "I know you will not, but you should. It would be good for the both of you."

"Hmm," you say, thoughtfully, still watching the family out in the yard. Your sister is very seldom wrong, but you do not always have the good sense to listen to her. This advice, in particular, you know you will ignore. In the corner of your mind, you can feel her frustration, but she is not surprised. She is your twin, and she knows all of your mistakes before you even make them.

 _Only because you make so many,_ she replies, still tangled up in your mind, and you smile at the thought.

"Not this time," you murmur. Out in the yard, Barton slips an arm around his wife, pressing a kiss to her hair, while the children chase fireflies in the grass. "This was not a mistake."

"No," your sister agrees, as you rest your chin atop her head, and close your eyes, ready to drift off. "No, it was not."

 ****  


-+-

 ****  


"How old are you, anyway?" Barton asks one morning, around a mouthful of nails. You and Wanda are helping him lay down hardwood floor, and by that you mean Wanda is actually very handy, and you are staying out of the way. You are eager to help whenever you can, although mostly you have just been sleeping. Healing has sapped your energy, and regaining your strength has been a slow process, and very frustrating.

Wanda raises an eyebrow and leaves it to you to answer. This is probably fair. You keep calling Barton an old man, of course he has gotten curious.

"Twenty-four," you tell him, and you almost think it sounds convincing, until Wanda scoffs.

"Oh, really?" your sister asks, feigning surprise. "All this time I am thinking you are only twelve minutes older, now you tell me it is five years?"

You think _traitor_ , but Wanda only smiles sweetly. Barton, though, abandons his nails and his hammer, and sits back on his heels. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head. "Christ, you're only _nineteen_?"

"Nearly twenty," you mutter, still shooting your sister a mutinous glare. She pretends not to notice. "It is almost our birthday."

"In eight months," Wanda adds unhelpfully, and Barton sputters.

" _Wanda_ ," you complain. You tell yourself you are not whining. “We are not children,” you tell Barton.  It is important to you that he understands this, that your childhood ended when you were ten years old, lying in the rubble of your apartment. “We grew up long ago.”

“No, yeah, I get that,” Barton says, nodding after a long moment of silence, and some part of you is relieved. “I mean, it sucks, but I get it.”

“It will not be a problem?” Wanda presses, suddenly very serious. She feels the same as you do, she does not want to be discounted simply because you are young. “Our age? If we should go back, and join the Avengers?”

Barton glances between the two of you and asks, “Are you going back?”

In your mind, it is not a question of if you will go back, but when. Still, it is not something you and Wanda have discussed. Every time you try to so much as broach the thought, she shuts you out, not ready or unwilling to talk about it. You catch her eye now, and you know she can feel your certainty, but she keeps her mind neutral.

“Maybe we will,” Wanda says, choosing her words carefully. “But not until my brother is himself again.”

Barton nods, as if to say, fair enough, but you do not like the implication. “I am fine,” you insist, and you are growing tired of repeating yourself. Always she is hovering, ever since you woke up, even though your wounds have healed, and you are stronger every day--

“You are slow,” Wanda argues, cutting off your train of thought. “How will you protect the Earth if you cannot outrun your enemies?” _How will you stay safe?_ she adds mentally, and you can feel the way her worries have coiled up inside her heart, weighing her down. You are being unfair, and you know it. If the roles were reversed, if you had come so close to losing your sister, you would never let her out of your sight.

And she is right, besides. You are slow. A bullet tore through your thigh, in that final battle for Sokovia. It was not your worst wound, although it is the last to fully heal. It still twinges, nearly a week after waking up on Barton's farm. It keeps you still, and stationary, even though the land around you is open and wide and you would like nothing more than to run, and it reminds you of another wound, when you were nearly fourteen and your sister was starving.

Often, you think of those long winters in Sokovia, when you did not know if you would survive to see the spring. You wonder about the boy you once were, and how your life would be if you had grown up in such a place as this, surrounded by simple beauty, by warmth and family. Would your sister smile more easily, if your parents were alive? Would the two of you be the same as you were, before the experiments? Would your city still be standing?

It does not matter, in the end. The boy you were is gone now, and you are here. You are someone else, and you have taken his place. Sokovia is gone, too, but there are other cities that are the same. There are more orphans, more hungry children, than you can count. This is why you cannot stay, and settle for a selfish peace. This is why you have to keep fighting.

Wanda knows this, too. She feels it just as strongly as you do, probably more so. It is her fear for you, that holds her back. She has lost you once, and does not want to risk losing you again, and she knows you too well to believe you will not put yourself in harm’s way once more.

There is another piece of her, though, that wants to return. Not just out of debt, or obligation, but desire. Your sister has power that you cannot imagine, coursing through her veins, and she is itching to use it. You can relate. Joining the Avengers will give you both an outlet, a purpose for these gifts, and a chance to do good in the world. It is too much of a temptation for either of you to resist.

Finally, Wanda nods. It is the tiniest of movements, but you grin all the same. “Good,” you say, mirroring her nod with your own. “It is decided, then.”

“Yeah?” Barton asks, still watching the both of you, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m guessing you’ve got some psychic twin mojo going on but, you know, I can’t read minds. What’s the verdict?”

“We will go back,” Wanda says. Her eyes are locked on your and she sounds very sure. “When Pietro is well,” she adds, and you know she will not budge. You suppose you can accept that.

“Tomorrow I will be running laps around this place,” you assure them both. Wanda smiles and rolls her eyes, but Barton only frowns. “You will see.”

“Just, please don’t run through any more walls,” Barton says, groaning at the memory. “I’m almost out of drywall.”

“That was one time!” you argue, offended. Two days ago you thought maybe you would try to run. It did not go as well as you had hoped, and afterwards Laura banned running in the house, indefinitely. “You said that you wanted a door there.”

“Yeah, one that was, you know. Door shaped.” Barton makes something like a rectangle with his hands. “Not Pietro shaped.”

“Pssh.” You wave your hand dismissively. “You will thank me later.”

Barton turns to your sister and asks, deadpan, “When did you say you were leaving?” but you know he will miss you all the same.

 ****  


-+-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, they were supposed to already have left the farm, like, halfway through this chapter? I just couldn't make it happen. I'll have to rearrange a few things next chapter.
> 
> Come say hello, orange-yarn.tumblr.com. See you sometime next week, maybe.


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Sorry. I saw AoU again the other night, and that was the push I needed to get this chapter finished. I think I like how it turned out. It's unbetaed, also it's 4AM and my sister and I just watched Mad Max three times in a row.
> 
> Maybe I'll come back and add a better note later. For now, have an update! :)

-+-

  
  


Strucker turned out to be many things, in the end, but you cannot say he was a liar. He came to you and your friends, the night after a riot gone horribly wrong, and he promised you many things. He told you it would be dangerous, and it was. He told you it might hurt, and it did. He told you that it would make you stronger, and you are. He told you that you could help to save your country.

You tried.

You were eighteen, the night you met Strucker, and you were _furious_. The soldiers had come wearing masks, this time, and your eyes were still burning from the gas. Three more of your friends had been arrested in the chaos, and you knew better than to hope that you would see them again. Your numbers were dwindling, there were barely twenty of you huddled in that narrow alleyway, and you had a twisting fear the rebellion would die with you.

“Listen to him, Wanda,” you insisted, clasping her hands and holding them tight. You wanted the power that Strucker was offering you, no matter the danger, no matter the pain, but your sister was not so sure. She was the only one you needed to convince - the rest of your friends would follow the two of you, without question. “This our chance. Think of what we could do.”

She looked over your shoulder, levelling her gaze at Strucker. “How do you know it will work?”

“Nothing comes without a risk,” Strucker acknowledged. He was standing half in shadow, just out of reach. “But our technology is...advanced. I have every confidence the project will succeed.”

Your sister’s face was calm, expressionless, but you could read the lines of tension in her shoulders. She did not believe him. This was unimportant. She only needed to believe you.

“Wanda,” you said, bringing one hand up to cup her chin, your thumb brushing her cheek. She breathed out and leaned into the touch, but her eyes were still wide and wary. “What good is it to stay here? Sokovia is dying, no matter what we do. We are dying.”

Your sister knew this. She had been dreaming of your death since the two of you were ten years old, nearly crushed in the rubble of your apartment. The dreams had gotten worse, since you were sixteen and joined up with the rebels. It was only a matter of time now. If you went with Strucker, you could still die, but at least you would have tried everything.

You held your sister’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, wishing you could lend her your conviction, and maybe even a bit of your recklessness. This was a leap of faith if there ever was one, and you would not take it without her.

She nodded against your palm, and your heart swelled. This was right, you knew it at your very core. This was the path you were meant to take. In your defense, eventually this did turn out to be true, even if you took a few wrong turns along the way.

The rest of your group followed easily, once Wanda had agreed. One month later, they were all dead, your friends and compatriots, everyone except for you and your sister. One year later, Sokovia was nothing but dust and memories.

  
  


-+-

  
  


The dreams are worse, after you move to New York. You had nightmares back at the farm, true, but there was something about that place, a warmth and comfort that kept the worst of them at bay. You are happy to be training with the other Avengers, working to make the world a safer place, but you will not deny that sometimes you miss the peace and quiet, especially when the nightmares come to call.

They gave you each your own room, when you joined on with the Avengers, side by side in the quietest wing of the new facility. More often than not, the two of you end up rooming together. Wanda stays in your room, when the nightmares take hold, or you slink into hers, when you’re trying to head them off. It does not do you much good, either way.

Every night, when you close your eyes you wonder, what will it be tonight? Will you dream of your own death, of a long, crushing darkness? Of the endless nights on Dr. List’s table, fire burning in your veins, and your own body out of your control? Will you dream of a city turned to a meteor, turned to ash, or of a jet swooping low, of a haze of bullets and blood?

These dreams are not even the worst. In the worst dreams, you live, and it is your sister who chokes and dies. You dream of her skin growing cold, her eyes growing dull. You dream of hands that will never again hold yours, of a voice that will never again speak your name. You dream that she dies by your hand, or you dream that you are trying to save her, but are always a second too late.

When the dreams creep in, they sink their claws in deep, and there is nothing you can do to free yourself from them. This night is no different than the others.

You do not even realize that you are screaming until Wanda is shaking you awake, her hands on your shoulders. In your panic you feel the physical contact long before you feel her mind wrapping around your own, her patience and calm a counterbalance to your delirium and terror.

“Pietro.” She chants your name, again and again, a mantra. “Pietro, my brother, look at me. I am safe. We are safe.” She smooths your hair back from your face, her hands cool against your feverish skin. “We are safe.”

For a long moment you are quiet, breathing in deep to steady yourself, and to calm your thundering heart. “Wanda?” you gasp, when once again you can breathe, when you recognize the walls of your room and your sister’s face, just above yours. She hums in response, her fingers still combing through your hair, and as the world comes into focus you realize that her hands are shaking? “You saw?”

She nods, only once. Her jaw is set and her eyes are haunted, and guilt clenches in your chest. She cannot shut you out, when the nightmares take you, or else she does not want to. She will not speak of it, not even to you, but you know those minutes when you were dead stretched out for her in eternity. You cannot remember, and she will not forget.

“I am sorry,” you murmur, but she only frowns.

“Hush,” she says, pressing a finger to your lips, and looks at you, disapproving. “None of that.” She settles herself back down to lie by your side, her back pressed into your chest. “No more dreams,” she commands, and you feel the tension bleed out of her as the two of you breathe in tandem. “Go back to sleep.”

“Alright,” you whisper. You wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her closer, and tuck your chin against her shoulder, and close your eyes.

  
  


-+-

  
  


The headaches start a few weeks into your training. At first, it is only a nuisance, a buzzing in the back of your mind, but in time it blooms, an ache behind your eyes, a dull throb in your skull that you cannot shake. You have not felt this way since you were a child, wandering the streets of Sokovia with your sister, never finding enough to eat.

At first, you dismiss it. Maybe it is some kind of transference, from your sister. Those headaches have plagued her since Strucker's experiments. You will never forget long hours in the darkness of the facility, sharing a single mattress, trying to help her block out the noise swelling in her skull, even while your bones rattled and shook. She dug her fingernails into her scalp, and you wrapped your body around her, like a cocoon, like you could protect her from what she was becoming. It was even worse, when your powers began to truly manifest, and they had no choice but to separate the two of you, if they wanted to control you.

Your sister felt your death, months ago in Sokovia, maybe now it is a two way street. This is what you tell yourself, anyway, rubbing at your temples and squinting your eyes shut against the harsh light of day.

You decide to ignore it. You have made worse mistakes, in your life, but not many.

Your powers have made you fast, they have filled you with a restless energy, but they do come with a price, and you cannot run forever. You have known exhaustion -- in the long nights when your powers were new and still ruled you, in the battles for Seoul and Sokovia, even dying only made you more tired, and for the first few weeks at Barton’s farm mostly you just rested.

Nowadays, you can barely sleep, thanks to the nightmares. On top of this, there is a nagging voice in your head that says you are not eating like you should, not enough to keep up with your metabolism. It takes a great deal of energy, to keep your body fueled, and you are not being careful enough.

It is strange, you think, how much your conscience sounds like your sister.

Maybe it is true, maybe you do not look after yourself as well as you should. Always you have put your sister first, for so long that it has become second nature. Now that the two of you have what you need, a warm place to sleep, and plenty to eat, and a purpose, you are not sure what to do with yourself. You will have to figure it out, and fast. If you are not careful, Wanda will take it upon herself to mother hen you, and she has her own training to worry about.

You will do better, you promise yourself. Starting tomorrow.

Today, you are on your first real mission since Sokovia, and since officially joining the Avengers. It is nothing like Ultron, the world is not about to end, but in some ways it feels the same. Maybe because here you are again, evacuating civilians with the War Machine, just in case the violence spreads. You sister is halfway across the city, with the Vision. You will not pretend to be happy about it.

You are not even sure how it happens. One minute, you are clearing the last of the families from an apartment building, the next, you are gasping in an alleyway, using one hand to brace yourself against the brick wall, and the other to clutch at a stitch in your side.

The world spins sickeningly as Rhodey comes in to land beside you, and static buzzes in your ears. He flips up the War Machine’s faceplate, something between concern and confusion on his face as he asks, “Maximoff? You alright?”

“I am fine,” you assure him, letting go of the wall to wave him off. This is also a mistake, as the ground below you sways, and you lose your balance. Your knees buckle, and the world goes dark before you even hit the ground.

You blink awake some time later, only to find yourself lying flat on your back, staring up at the inside of the jet. You’re sprawled out on a cot, and the jet is still where Wilson landed it, with the back hatch wide open and daylight pouring in. You wince at the brightness, lurching to sit yourself up, moving far too quickly for anyone to stop you.

“Woah, easy,” a voice says, and Rogers puts a firm hand on your shoulder to steady you. “Take a breather, kid.”

You are dizzy and disoriented, but aware enough to realize you are not alone on the jet. Romanoff is rifling around in one of the compartments, and Rhodey is standing just behind Rogers, peering over shoulder.

“The mission?” you ask, furrowing your brow as you try and remember what you even came out here for you, or where, exactly, you happen to be.

“It’s over,” Rogers tells you. He still hasn’t let go of your shoulder. “We’re heading out as soon as everyone’s back.” He eyes you critically, and then asks, “When was the last time you slept?”

“Just now,” you quip. Rogers still looks worried, which is irritating. You really are fine, you only pushed yourself too far. It has happened before, it will happen again. It is not such a big deal. “Where is my sister?” She’s still there, in the back of your mind, but she is quiet. That is never a good sign.

“She’s almost here. You been eating enough?” he presses, and you roll your eyes. It only makes you a little dizzier.

“Ask Wilson,” you answer, and even as you speak he lands on the ramp and hustles into the open jet. “Just the other night I ate all of my pizzas and half of his.”

“That is true,” Wilson agrees, sighing and tugging off his goggles as Rogers finally lets go of your shoulder. “I thought you said you didn’t like mushrooms.”

You shrug. “I am not that picky.” You cannot decide if the thought of pizza is making your hungry or nauseous. Maybe a little of both. For all your banter and attitude, you are not actually feeling any better, and the very worst part is you think the rest of the team all knows it.

“There it is,” Romanoff says suddenly, turning and tossing you two small squares, each wrapped in a plain silver package. You are feeling slow and sluggish, but you manage to catch them both just the same, if only barely.

“What is this?” you ask, peeling open of the wrappers, only to something that looked like a protein bar. You sniff it suspiciously, not sure what to expect.

“You do understand how your metabolism works, don’t you?” Romanoff asks, sounding skeptical, and you scoff, because of course you do. A doctor sat you down and explained it all, and you mostly listened. Well, Wanda listened. You think that counts. “Bruce came up with these, so he didn’t crash after a transformation.”

“They’re not so bad,” Rogers offers. “They’re kind of like Rice Krispie Treats.”

Either Rogers is a liar, or he has never eaten a Rice Krispie Treat, because Dr. Banner’s energy bars taste nothing like them. You would know, Wanda is always complaining that you eat too many, and leave the wrappers everywhere. You scarf both bars down anyway, because you truly are ravenous, and Romanoff is tossing you a third one by the time your sister stalks onto the jet, Vision at her heels.

“Pietro Maximoff!” She is not actually shouting, but the air around you seems to drop by several degrees, and her anger prickles up your spine. The tendrils of her consciousness brush against yours, and you know all at once that she felt it, when you blacked out, and she was frightened. Now that she sees you, and that you are well, her fear has faded, and she is only angry. Angry at you, for pushing yourself too far, and angry at herself, for not watching you more carefully. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” you admit, probably sounding too cheerful, because her gaze only darkens. She comes to stand beside your cot, arms crossed and her lips pressed tightly together. “You know me so well, sister, why do you even ask?”

“You should take better care of yourself!” she counters, clearly not ready for your jokes. You nod once, finally feeling the littlest bit of remorse. You did not mean to upset her, again. “And you should apologize to Colonel Rhodes, for making him look after you.”

“He did not mind,” you say, around a mouthful of the third and fourth energy bar. “It was, what, a bonding experience?”

"Yeah, yeah," Rhodey says, waving his hand dismissively. "Shut up and eat your rice crispy treat." He turns to Wilson and say, "I'll flip you for them next time. Loser gets Sonic the Hedgehog."

“Hey!” you argue, but no one seems to care if you are offended. Wilson laughs and Rogers claps you on the shoulder. Romanoff scrounges up a fifth bar before heading to the cockpit, and Vision is probably staring at your sister, knowing him. You make a mental note to keep an eye on the android.

Wanda tugs on your ear and says, "You are a fool, Pietro," with equal parts exasperation and affection. She is teasing, but there is something in her eyes that betrays her worry for you. You will have to do something about that, you decide. But for now, you only smile, and Wanda takes your hand and does not let go the entire flight home.

  
  
  
-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably turn out to be six chapters, if anyone is wondering. Also, I'm done pretending I can bully this into anything like a five times fic. 
> 
> orange-yarn.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> This is only loosely a five times type fic. Pietro and Wanda were just so tactile, so each of these will deal with touch. The second chapter will be done in the next day or two, and I have the rest planned out. We'll just see what happens.
> 
> I'm orange-yarn on tumblr, come say hello!


End file.
